


Roses for remembrance

by softgrungeprophet



Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse)
Genre: Canon Related, Flirting, Human Torch (2003), M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-29 02:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21131207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softgrungeprophet/pseuds/softgrungeprophet
Summary: Mike's stare was intense—it always had been. Even in high school. Like the Atlantic on a stormy day. His right eyelid had some slight scarring on it, but his eye had miraculously been spared, for the most part. The only real traces there, a few small gaps where his eyelashes had never grown back.





	Roses for remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> me, making myself the MOST niche content possible.
> 
> If you don't know who Mike "the Snowman" Snow is I suggest you read _[Human Torch](https://marvel.fandom.com/wiki/Human_Torch_Vol_2)_ (2003), specifically the first arc: "Burn" (which is like, 6 issues?)

It was a warm June day, and flowers bloomed just about everywhere Johnny set his eyes. It was nice. Beautiful. Wildflowers and not-so-wild flowers, cultivated gardens and sprawls. Sprinklers waving back and forth, with the sun high and the sky cloudless. The idealized summer day of photos, movies, books, memoirs, paintings.

He'd never been here before, at least not this neighborhood—the city, maybe. He'd been to a lot of places.

But the weather reminded him of someone he'd not forgotten but had let drift slightly from his mind, so he found himself googling Mike Snow, and now he drove slowly through a calm Portland neighborhood, eyeing the house numbers—but he needn't have bothered, really. One garden in particular caught his eye, and sure enough, that was the place.

He pulled his rental up to the curb. Not into the driveway, not so bold as that. There was a silver Subaru Outback parked there, anyway, and good God he'd seen about a thousand of those since they'd been in the area, but it still made him laugh to imagine big, gruff Mike driving one of those eco-friendly station wagons. It was newer, at least. Not totally identical to every little blue and green thing he'd seen at least once an hour.

Johnny hopped out of his car, onto the curb, and gave the house a long look.

Nothing special. A small bungalow with sage green siding, charmingly worn at the corners but in otherwise good shape. The red door popped, but more than that, the flowers drew him from the curb to the fence.

They were red too—well, at least, the small roses draped over the metal arbor were red, few-petaled and yellow-centered, thick greenery climbing over and around the arch and trailing toward the chain link of the fence, though they gave way to some unusual-looking (to Johnny) striped roses, red and white and streaky, trailing in and along the chain but also settling some into the garden itself and some even held up like one might prop a tomato plant.

He pushed open the gate carefully, lowering the temperature of the air just around him to discourage the many, many bees from trying to land on his arms.

Lavender filled in a lot of the fence, and some tired looking irises of a deep blue-violet, wilting slightly in the dry heat. Some white flowers carpeted much of the dirt, not just by the fence but in amongst the deeper roses—the bulk of the garden made up of thickly petalled blooms in warm pinks, with hints of orange in their tone. Soft but fiery, gentling into smoother, creamy apricot scattered throughout as well as nearer the house itself. All crammed in together but seeming to be fine with it, with spikes of multicolored lupines popping out, and... an unfamiliar plant Johnny didn't know, with globes of purple flowers on long stems.

Pressed up against the front of the house, all the roses were pale. Very few pure white; most with the slightest hints of yellow or orange making them just a little warm.

Johnny turned slowly, to take it all in. The colors, orange and purple and white... The smell, too. Between the lavender and the roses he stood in a cloud of fragrance, and for a moment he wished he could wear that perfume—nothing he owned quite matched up to the smell of living summer flowers like this.

He reached out to run his thumb along a silky soft petal...

"Can I help you?"

Johnny jumped, twisting back toward the house—"Oh! Mike!"

Mike stood in the open doorway—he must have seen Johnny through the window, and opened the door without him noticing. He was dressed simply, looking much like Johnny remembered him. Heavy black brows, stormy dark blue eyes... Scars in waves down the side of his face and neck, disappearing under the collar of his snug black t-shirt.

"Hey! It's me." Johnny raised his hand in an awkward wave. "You know. Johnny Storm." He glanced around him, at all the roses. "What, uh—what happened to not dwelling on the past?"

Raising his eyebrows, Mike echoed, "Johnny..." He frowned slightly, sweeping his eyes up and down to give Johnny a good once-over, and ignored that last part. "Here to bring your bad luck to me?"

Johnny flipped his hair out of his eyes with a huff, and said, "Maybe I got a thing for average, dark and handsome—" He pulled a face. "I don't know why I said that."

Mike grunted. But he didn't seem angry, or anything. Mildly perplexed, at most. Somewhat calculating as he asked, quietly, "Why're you here, Storm?"

With a shrug, Johnny shoved his hands into the pockets of his pale blue skinny jeans. "I said I'd drop by sometime, didn't I?"

"Didn't realize that was a threat." Mike crossed his arms.

"A _promise_."

A long stare, and finally, just "Mm-hm."

Johnny sighed and held his arms out in surrender of... something.

"You gonna let me in, or no?"

For what felt like ages, most likely under a minute, Mike stood in the doorway with his arms crossed looking at Johnny like something he was trying to memorize. But, finally, he took a step back, turning away from Johnny—he nodded his head inside, and left the red door open behind him as he disappeared into the dim shadows of his house.

If Johnny Storm had been a normal human, he might have appreciated the relief of coolness inside. As it was, he noticed it only in a more passive way, as his body adjusted slightly to maintain its equilibrium.

It was nice inside, though. Small, but nice. Tastefully painted walls, nice wood floors, clean. Not much of a living room, mostly just a kitchen and the attached space, unseparated, set up with a pretty high-end entertainment center. A short little hallway with a couple of doors.

"Make yourself at home, if you have to." Mike pulled a jug of lemonade out of the fridge and poured two glasses.

Johnny sat on the leather couch, folding his hands in his lap. The little clink-clink of ice on glass signaled the arrival of his lemonade, and he took it with a quiet, "Thanks."

Mike sat in the chair to the side with a sigh and stretched his legs out as he took a sip.

"So." He eyed Johnny.

"You look good." Johnny took a drink, grimacing slightly at the sourness.

Mike almost seemed amused. "And you look..."

"Fruity?" Johnny leaned back against the cushions, bringing his foot up to rest on his knee.

Raising one eyebrow, Mike said, simply, "Different." He paused. "Except the earrings. Why'd you ever get rid of those, anyway?"

God, high school. A time of questionable headwear decisions, dorky jewelry, and bad haircuts on top of it all. Johnny smoothed the hem of his white turtleneck—absolutely unseasonable, but when did that ever bother him?—and shrugged with a slight smile. "Couldn't tell you."

They were silent a moment, until Johnny had to break it. Unable to just stay quiet.

"How long's it been since you last saw me? Eight years?" He reached up toward his ear, a little self-conscious suddenly.

Mike smirked and gestured toward the TV (muted) with his lemonade. "About an hour."

Right.

Johnny grinned. "Keeping up with me?" He placed a hand to his chest. "I'm flattered."

A bark of a laugh, somewhere between truly amused and slightly irritated. Mike shook his head and muttered, "As if I could avoid you." He took a long drink, and after a moment added, "You followed me across the whole damn country."

"In my defense," Johnny adjusted the way he sat slightly, crossing his legs in the opposite direction and draping his arm along the back of the couch. "We just _happened_ to be in the area and I remembered you mentioning Portland, and..." He shrugged. "I don't know. I just thought I should say hi."

"Mm." Mike looked down at his half-drunk lemonade, thoughtful. He offered Johnny a wry smile, and said, "You never could mind your own business."

It was Johnny's turn to laugh, then, quietly. "Guess not." He leaned forward, propping his chin in his hand, just a little teasing. "I'm incorrigible that way."

Mike snorted. "Airhead like you even know what that means?"

"Does a meathead like _you_?" Johnny set his lemonade on the coffee table, and tilted his head slightly against his palm.

"Sure I do." Mike tipped his glass toward Johnny. "Iron. The wavy kind."

A beat.

He winked.

Johnny snorted, and let himself laugh, falling back against the cushions.

Stupid, stupid joke.

They fell into silence, and it didn't make Johnny as restless as he might have expected, this time—considering his tendency to prattle on, and considering the historically strained relationship between him and Mike. They just... watched TV, and eventually Mike moved to the couch so he could see the screen better, and neither of them said much of anything.

Wasn't sports, wrestling, nothing like that. Not fire, either, though... what would that have even been? No, it wasn't anything Johnny expected—truth be told, Johnny had expected the Summer Olympics, for some reason, a year in advance... but no. Just a gardening show. An old man with a prim accent discussing herbs (with an H), as he sat on his knees in the dirt.

There was a photo of Rose and Mike set just in front of the TV. Not in the way, just in line-of-sight. A little splash of orange, smiling.

Years, and he still had that front-and-center.

Not that Johnny didn't still sometimes dream about the night he'd burned Mike, though it had alleviated somewhat after they did that interview after Rose's death. So... he wasn't one to criticize keeping things in your memory like that.

"Your lemonade sucks."

Mike looked at Johnny, his expression both offended and amused, as well as somewhat taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"Your lemonade." Johnny shot him a charming smile. "It sucks."

"What brought this on?" Mike stood, his own empty glass in one hand as he reached for Johnny's near-full glass with the other. The ice all melted, condensation dripping down the sides. "Just felt like insulting me? Old time's sake?"

Johnny watched him move into the kitchen, over the back of the couch, craning his neck back a bit at an awkward angle. "Just thought you should know." He grinned crookedly, half-upside down, as Mike poured his lemonade down the drain. "For the greater good of society." The jug came out, too, and Mike dumped that—"Hey! Whoa, wait, if you like it—!"

Mike laughed, his broad shoulders hitching slightly as he poured it all down the sink. "No, no." He glanced over his shoulder. "You're doing me a favor." He rinsed the jug out as he spoke, just audible over the quiet strains of the gardening show. "Thought that was just how lemonade was supposed to be, is all. Disgusting."

Incredulously, Johnny twisted around to see him better. "What!" He got up on his knees on the couch, propping himself up on the back. "You just drank it all 'cause you thought it was normal?!"

Mike shrugged.

Johnny laughed—he couldn't help it. Here he was, Mr. Picky Eater, and Mike just downed something he hated because it was there and no one had told him it was bad. "You—" He popped his fist up under his chin. "You're unbelievable."

"Says the guy who can _fly_."

Mike turned and crossed his arms, leaning against the cabinet. Again, watching Johnny like he was trying to read him or something.

Obviously, that just wouldn't do, so obviously Johnny had to be completely tactless and say, "So you're growing all those orange roses because of her, right?" He held Mike's stare. "I didn't think you were a gardening kind of guy."

Mike broke first, looking down at the floor, and sighed. "Yeah." He scuffed his bare foot across the tiles. "Thought it would be a nice way to remember her, at first, and then... You know, I really like it." He smiled, sadly. "All the destruction I see... Nice to bring something beautiful into the world like that."

"...Yeah." Johnny sank down to sit, an awkward position with his arms folded on the back of the couch so he could rest his cheek against the back of one hand. "They're amazing."

One of the windows was open a crack, and a breeze had picked up and wafted the barest hint of lavender and roses into the room.

"I put a lot of work into them."

Johnny nodded. "Yeah, I can tell." He smiled, himself. Rueful. "I can really tell." A pause... "Hey, where's your bathroom?"

Mike nodded toward the hallway and said, "On your right."

"Right."

Johnny pushed himself off the couch and hurried down the short hall into the bathroom. Also very small, but tidy and clean. It even had a little basket on the back of the toilet with those individually wrapped rolls of toilet paper. Johnny felt his mouth quirk up into a smile. Something about that, about the whole situation, about the lemonade and the disgustingly plush bath mat, and the carefully arranged toothbrush holder, and the fact that outside there were all these beautiful flowers...

And this was Mike. Mike Snow, star athlete, had a big shot at the Olympics that Johnny had fucked up—big, wide Mike Snow with the grumpy face and the quiet, retiring demeanor. But a beast on the mat, and sturdy in the face of overwhelming odds...

And he decorated like a grandma.

Well, minus the leather couch and the snazzy TV.

Johnny did what he came to the bathroom to do. Took a moment after to fix his hair. To make sure his little titanium hoops were in place and his sweater wasn't wrinkled. He planted his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest to look at himself in the mirror.

Yeah, a far cry from high school, even if he'd gone back to the earrings eventually.

When Johnny came back out into the living room-slash-kitchen, Mike stood at the counter drying off the plastic jug he'd had the lemonade in earlier. A few things sat on the counter—a box of sugar, not even sealed in a jar or anything, just an open box. A couple of lemons. A sizeable bottle of lemon juice—

"Ugh, what are you doing?" Johnny snatched the lemon juice off the counter with a disgusted look, and set it down away from the empty jug. "No. Fresh lemons only." He grabbed the measly two lemons and brandished them at Mike. "You hear me? Fresh."

Mike rolled his eyes, but he nodded. "Alright, alright. How many?"

Johnny arranged himself at the counter. "Eight. I don't think Meyer lemons are technically in season but you should be able to find some, and it's not like you're _poor_—" He tossed a grin over his shoulder. "Big as possible, with a little bit of give. Like you." He winked.

"Jesus." Mike rubbed his forehead with a grumble, but he nodded. "Okay. Gimme your phone." He held his hand out. "I'll go to the store and you can text me what you need. I gotta get groceries anyway."

Delighted, Johnny handed Mike his phone so he could give him his number—and then he was left alone in Mike's house and he hadn't quite thought that through. It was a little weird. And he couldn't really make the lemonade until he had the _lemons_... He sent Mike the things he would need, purely from memory of course—how could Johnny _not_ have the perfect lemonade recipe memorized after so much time spent babysitting Val and Franklin? Of _course_ he had it memorized.

That done... He took a moment to look around the kitchen.

There were a lot of takeout menus stuck to the fridge, as well as a small pamphlet holder with a handful more. A list of emergency numbers. One of those whiteboard calendars hung on the freezer door, too. There wasn't much of anything in the cupboards. Sugar, salt... Canned fish... _Pasta-roni_...

"God, what a bachelor." Johnny stuck his head into the barren refrigerator. "At least he has a cookbook."

One cookbook, a good one. And it had clearly been used all of once, perfectly clean and crisp. The spine creaked slightly when he opened it, even. Stiff and still with that new book smell. There was a flyer tucked into the pages for a cooking class. Johnny smiled.

He flipped through it absentmindedly, skimming the recipes for something that sounded good.

It _was_ the tail-end of asparagus season...

Johnny shot Mike another list of ingredients and ended it with a kiss-blowing emoji.

Just to shake things up.

Mike did not deign to respond beyond a terse, "Okay" fifteen minutes later.

With at least twenty minutes to kill, or much longer depending on how slow of a shopper Mike was, Johnny flopped onto the couch and grabbed the remote, dangling his legs over the arm. He flipped through a few channels until he found a suitably campy-looking Western and settled in.

He split his attention between watching the movie and texting Peter selfies, which Peter dutifully ignored—honestly, Johnny wasn't sure if Peter even had image texting on his piece-of-shit phone. One would think he might have gotten a better phone by now but it seemed as though he had accidentally destroyed his Webware cellphone, and never had the money to get a good replacement. Johnny could have gotten him one of the FF's, probably...

Peter was always too proud to ask for things like that, though.

Johnny slid his razor-thin phone back into his pocket and focused on the Western.

The credits had just begun to roll when Mike came back, arms full of groceries. He kicked the door shut behind him as he said, "Couldn't find crème fraiche so I got sour cream."

"Ugh." Johnny pushed himself upright. "Fine, I guess."

Mike raised his eyebrows, slipping off his hiking sandals. "Better be fine." He hauled the groceries over to the kitchen and set them down with a huff. "I could've told you to get lost before you even made it through the door. If sour cream isn't good enough for you, you're gonna have to suck it up."

Johnny laughed, and hopped off the couch to join him by the counter. "I got it, I got it." He waved Mike off. "Feel free to kick me out after dinner."

It was almost four, after all.

"Whatever." Mike stepped back and let Johnny take control.

Ah, but Johnny wouldn't make it that easy. No, no.

"Hey, get back here." Johnny snapped his fingers with a little spark. "Wash those lemons and start rolling them on the cutting board under your palm." The cutting board which was as pristine as though it had never been used. And it probably hadn't been. Johnny shook his head but Mike did as told, and Johnny reached for the very clean pot he'd found in one of the cupboards and filled it with water. Time to get to work.

Over the next twenty minutes or so Johnny coached Mike through making lemonade as he himself improvised from that unused cookbook to make pasta primavera with garlic asparagus. It was good, to fall into this activity. Much as he joked, much as he loved his novelty "I don't cook on days that end in Y" apron, he really did like to cook. And at some point, Mike had opened all the windows wide open, so the kitchen filled with the smell of lemons, roses, and sautéing garlic.

Quietly, near the end, as Mike poured out a couple of glasses of this fresh, new lemonade and filled the glasses with ice, he murmured, "It's been a long time since I cooked with someone like this."

It was clear who that someone had been, even if he didn't say her name.

Johnny dished out their pasta and spared him a glance. He slid one plate over to Mike and said, "Well, I'm glad I could do one good thing for you."

Mike nodded, raising his glass to lips. He seemed to be mulling something over but when he took a sip, he just... stopped.

"Oh." He looked at his lemonade. "It's good."

Johnny grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. "I told you!"

Mike looked down at his hand, and for a second Johnny felt like he'd missed a step—he couldn't feel the scar through Mike's shirt but he knew it was there and he snatched his hand away with a "Sorry, sorry—"

"No," Mike set his lemonade down and grabbed his hand by the wrist—he was strong, his hands big and calloused. He held Johnny's wide-eyed gaze seriously, and placed Johnny's palm against the side of his neck. Over the faded but still pink, still slightly shiny ripples of skin there.

Johnny's fingers tensed a little against Mike's neck but he didn't pull away, or look away either. Obviously the scar was most noticeable on his face, just shy of his eye, spread across half his skull and down to his neck, but there must have been more. On his chest, and his shoulder.

Mike reached up to mirror Johnny, one hand going to Johnny's own unblemished neck.

If Mike had wrapped his fingers around Johnny's neck, he wouldn't have blamed him. Mike didn't, of course. He was too nice for that, as much as he glowered and glared. Always the better man. Able to remember and even dislike without truly holding a _grudge_.

Johnny slid his hand up over Mike's jaw, to lay his hand flat across his cheek. He was handsome, still. Always had been, with those strong features. That square jaw and striking nose, and deep-set eyes. Maybe he had looked a little better with hair but Johnny barely remembered what that looked like, anyway. He ran his thumb along the unfamiliar texture of Mike's scarred cheek.

Then, unprompted, Mike asked, "You're gay, right?"

For just a breath, Johnny felt frozen. "I—" He moved to pull his hand away, but Mike crowded in close with his fingers still wrapped around Johnny's wrist. "That's not—"

No use lying. No one ever believed him, anyway.

"...Yeah."

Mike's stare was intense—it always had been. Even in high school. Like the Atlantic on a stormy day. His right eyelid had some slight scarring on it, but his eye had miraculously been spared, for the most part. The only real traces there, a few small gaps where his eyelashes had never grown back.

"You've been flirting with me all afternoon."

Maybe he had.

Johnny poked his tongue out, just wetting his suddenly dry lips. Mike's hand held the back of his neck firmly.

"You gonna beat me up?" Johnny controlled his voice carefully.

Mike blinked.

For once, he seemed at a total loss for words rather than simply stoic. But finally he breathed a sharp, "No," and let Johnny go. Put his hands up, palms out. "No, why would I—"

"Dunno." Johnny put both his hands on Mike's shoulders. "Wouldn't be the first time."

Mike made this... pained face and shook his head. "No, I'm not that kind of man."

Johnny smiled. "Good." He leaned forward to close the gap between them.

Rough as everything else about him was, Mike's lips were soft. For just a moment, he was very still, but then his hands settled around Johnny's waist and he kissed back. He was a pretty good kisser. Johnny wasn't nearly the playboy the media made him out to be, but he'd done enough kissing to know a good kisser when he met one.

One of Mike's hands slipped under the hem of his sweater, and up his back—drawing goosebumps up his skin.

"Mr. _Snow_..." Johnny bit his lip, grinning, nose brushing Mike's. "So forward."

Mike tugged him up against him so their bodies pressed together. "Been awhile."

"Oh, I see." Johnny draped his arms across Mike's shoulders. "That makes it okay, then."

Again, that deep stare. Voice low, rumbling in his chest.

"I can stop."

Johnny shook his head. "I don't mind, as long as you're gentle."

"Gentle..." Mike brushed his lips against Johnny's again. "I can do gentle."

***

Now, normally Johnny didn't put out on the first date. Or the pre-first-date. Despite all the media gossip and celebrity buzz, he wasn't much of a one night stand kind of guy, either. More of a go home and make the girl dinner and then tell her she was lovely but he really wasn't interested kind of guy. A secret dates with dark-haired men kind of guy that rarely went further than some mild groping. The mood had to be right, the guy had to be right—none of them ever were. Gym rats who wanted the under-the-table clout of getting it on with the Human Torch.

So of course he never let them.

And the guys he would have let, they were off-limits.

Mike, though—Johnny knew he didn’t give half a shit about reputation. Hell, even in high school their feud had been 90% one-sided on Johnny's part, the other 10% mostly being Mike's insecurity about ever meaning anything. About making it. But he didn't care about the flash, or the glamor.

And he _was_ gentle.

And very good with his hands.

"You know, I didn't come here with the intent of getting laid." Johnny stretched out across Mike's big bed, happy to feel the air on his skin. Languid and warm. "Or making pasta, for that matter."

Mike grunted, his wordless way of acknowledgment.

Johnny looked at him.

He'd been right, about Mike's scar. Over the front of his shoulder, and a bit on his well-muscled chest. It didn’t quite reach his nipple—but close. He lay there with his eyes closed, calm. Sleepy, slow-breathing. Like a big, grumpy cat finally relaxing with a splash of low, late afternoon sunlight stretching across him from the window. Open, to let the breeze in, and the smell of the roses that provided him a screen of privacy.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Mike's voice, a soft mumble.

Johnny rolled onto his side to face him. "I'm all ears."

Mike sighed, just a little. "The _real_ real reason I didn't like you in high school—other than you being a stuck-up douche, of course."

"Oh," Johnny scoffed. "Please, keep sweet-talking me."

Mike opened his eyes just to frown at Johnny. Reached out, to toy with one of Johnny's earrings. His thumbprint rough against Johnny's earlobe.

"Had a crush on you."

His mouth quirked, just barely, the threat of a smile. "Bad taste, huh?"

That took a moment to fully process. All the times Mike had stared at him, the baleful glares, the hedging, the whole thing with Hannah. The way he'd never really... participated in their so-called rivalry except the night he'd followed Johnny. The night Johnny burned him.

"...Very bad taste." Johnny frowned slightly.

Mike trailed his knuckle down the line of Johnny's jaw. "For the record..." He knocked Johnny's chin, gently. "I still don't like you."

Johnny snorted, and rolled onto his back again. "Okay, okay. I'm awful, I get it."

He glanced over, and Mike shrugged, with a slight smirk.

Johnny shook his head with a sigh, smiling to himself.

He'd have to go soon, to meet up with his family by sunset, as they prepared to return to New York. But... for now... there were worse places to be. Worse people to be with.

For now, he could lounge in Mike Snow's bed, breathing in the smell of roses.

**Author's Note:**

> Roses I mention include [altissimo](https://www.davidaustinroses.com/us/altissimo-english-climbing-rose) (simple red climbing roses along the [chain link arbor-gate](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/a1/69/7d/a1697d91720d6667220117abf1d21b1e.jpg)), [fourth of july](https://www.heirloomroses.com/fourth-of-julytm.html) roses (stripey and also fairly simple, climbing on the fence), [christopher marlowe](https://www.davidaustinroses.com/us/christopher-marlowe-shrub-rose) roses (vibrant pink, thick petals), [tea clipper](https://www.davidaustinroses.com/us/tea-clipper-shrub-rose) roses (apricot petals, also thick), and then [blanchefleur](https://www.davidaustinroses.com/eu/blanchefleur) roses (thick cream, fairly tall, blocking the windows) and... scattered, some sort of alba rose (white). But mostly the cream.
> 
> Plus the companion flowers of lavender, allium (garlic, maybe), lupine, iris, and alyssum (the white groundcover).


End file.
